literature

The Impact of Small Stories

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The memories I have of my mom during my first half of grade school are dominated by her entangled in the sheets of the huge bed that she shared with no one except for me when a night terror struck. In that bed she would sleep, or sob, or blankly stare at the cop drama that played on the TV; at that time in our lives she was an insufficiently treated suicidal manic bipolar depressant. To my recollection during her “dark days”, which that time period is now referred to in my family, she was mostly nonfunctional, which just meant that she stayed imprisoned in those sheets; however, sometimes she would be functional and would come down to the kitchen, or living room, or backyard with my brother, sister, and me. Even more rarely I would be the only one of the children in the large house and I would get to savor this miraculous awakening all by myself. On those rare occasions my mom would fondly look back on her teenage years where she would bravely ride almost wild Arabian horses. She would narrate galloping though the Maryland fields and woods, being a part of flying herd of horses chasing after hounds that were pursuing after a fox. She would excitedly recount the rush of adrenaline as her mare would clear a three foot fence, or bush, or fallen tree in one powerful leap without losing their lead in the herd. These anecdotes, though not remembered by the bearer anymore, still exhilarate me, terrify me, and make me dream.

These stories strengthened th bond that only my mom and I had: a seemingly genetic infatuation with horses. My father, brother, and sister all shy away from the dangerously mighty but gentle giants, so it is only my mom and I who are allowed to relish in this heaven on Earth. Once I reached about third grade, mom started to get elctroconvulsive therapy and its shocks obliterated the clarity of her long term memory, thus no longer could she remember the freedom of going at a break neck pace on the brown mare, she could only remember that it had happened. Never have I told her this, and nor do I plan to, but when I learned that she could not tell those enchanting stories, I felt as if I had lost an enormous unnamed possession that I held so dear, and that contributed to my newly developed anger issues. I was a leader with no control; my life was being determined by two parties who could not see eye to eye. My dad had remarried a woman who would openly slander the name of my sister and mother and my mom’s new husband was, and still is, an immature fool stuck in his glorious high school years. I would perform almost unstoppable tantrums that would result in getting locked in the bathroom until I ran out of steam. My parents tried many methods to try to get me to calm down: acting, soccer, ballet, arts and crafts, yet I could not be quelled.

It was my ninth birthday when my mom found the answer to the problem, that afternoon I was brought to an equestrian center and was placed on, oddly enough, an Arabian named Romeo. It was then that I felt like I had been introduced to my new life. From there on out my mom kept me riding at least once a week, whenever she moved she made sure that there was a stable that I could ride at. When she moved back to my hometown Davis she convinced my dad to let me ride three times a week which eventually evolved into earning my own horse and riding him every day. The longer I rode the calmer and more mature I became; my parents to this day still wonder how-seemingly overnight-I went from an immature wrathful nine year old to a wise beyond their years young adult. My only response is that it was the horses.

Now it is because of mine and my mom’s impenetrable bond over horses and all of her awe inspiring support that spurs me to be a feared competitor in my sport, and a fought over equine sports vet. I wish to not only give back to my mom, but to give back to the horses; for both have morphed me into somebody who I am truly happy to be. All because of a couple small enthralling stories that I can say have changed my life.
I wrote this for my English class, but sadly it is too long of the assignment. I thought it would be a shame to waste such a beautiful essay so I decided to edit the long version and post it here instead. So enjoy because this essay took some internal digging.
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pinballwitch's avatar
Congrats on the DLD :nod: Thank you for sharing!